Mrs. Flinger: A work in progress

UPDATE TO Mrs. Flinger October 16, 2015

Because the Universe has a wicked sense of humor, after this delcaration, my blog threw up all over my last upgrade.

So I'm starting over using Craft. Turning 40 and kid entering Jr High next year, sometimes it's just time for a change. These archives will still exist in the way the last child goes off to college and their room is the same for 20 years,
but it's just time to move forward.

Here comes the sun LALALALA May 24, 2010

A short, quick, super-fast update on the weekend because WE ALL HAVE SHIT TO DO.

Yes, including you.

A great friend of mine and her son travelled to Wenatchee with us to find the sunshine and an over-night road trip. There’s a mystical place in Washington State where the sun shines most of the year and it’s called EASTERN WASHINGTON.

There are also a lot of Rednecks there. And Apples.

So the three children piled in the back of our Xterra and we headed over to find swimming, playing outside in short sleeves, and good food.

Here is a snort synopsis of the trip.

And then we all passed out at 7pm.

The end.

*But it was seriously SO FUN. Minus the throwing fits and stuff. The kids’ fits, I mean. Michelle and I were pretty well behaved considering.

**Next I get to leave the kids at home and go to San Francisco this week.

***OH! Did I mention? I’m speaking in San Francisco at EECI. And I haven’t finished my keynote. AND I AM LEAVING IN TWO DAYS.

**Queue Panic Attack.

Purple Cafe’s Bucheron Goat Cheese May 21, 2010

My neighbor and workout partner introduced me to the love of Goat Cheese at Purple Cafe recently. It’s the kind of dish I set aside all kinds of weight watchers points to enjoy. It’s the kind of dish I beg my husband to take me out to dinner for. It’s the kind of dish I write home to friends and family about.

I swear this dish could stop wars. WHY WAR? EAT BUCHERON GOAT CHEESE.

Today I found the Purple Cafe blog. To my delighted surprise, I found the beloved goat cheese recipe.

And now there may never be disease or war or famine. LET US ALL FIX GOAT CHEESE AT HOME.

Orgasms may occur. Use at your own risk.

Enjoy.

Three Years PostPartum May 20, 2010

First, please know I don’t love you less than your sister, I love you later. Just because I realized yesterday, that I hadn’t invited anyone to your birthday party for tomorrow, doesn’t mean I don’t love you. It means I’m entirely over taxed and very, very tired which I only blame you for 40% of.

It’s pretty tough to believe it’s been three years. That’s the same amount of time the “The Indian Remote Sensing Satellite” or, IRS-1D orbited the earth taking pictures. (yea, I know things) In dog years, you’d be entering your teen-age angst.

Sometimes I think you live in Dog Years.

*Nothing says love like a choke-hold

You are really coming in to your own, Buddy. You are striving to be “the funny one” and regularly crack us up at the dinner table.

You push your chair over to help me make breakfast/lunch/dinner yelling, “I HELP YOU! I HELP YOU!”

If I bump my toe, you kiss it. “Better, Mommy?”

I pretty much am a goddess in your eyes. I don’t mind so much but your dad says you might never leave home until your mid-forties and that’s just sort of creepy.

Don’t listen to your dad.

You challenge me. Daily. Multi-daily, really. You teach me as much as I teach you. Yesterday you begged to play my guitar. “You HAFFTO play your guitar, Mommy! You HAFFTO.” I was too busy to play. So you took matters in to your own hands. “I play your guitar, Mommy? I PLAY?” I said no a few times. You insisted. I realized I was saying no out of habit and, besides, haven’t I always told you to learn acoustic and go to medial school? (The Ladies will be all over you and you can pick a lovely wife to mother my grandchildren.)

So I gave in.

This transition to the new house has been difficult for you. You have never slept alone in your entire life until two months ago. You lived in our room for 9 months and then in with your sister. I thought it would be a good time to teach you to sleep alone, you know, so you don’t seek bad relationships in a co-dependent type of way as an adult? (I think ahead.) But you and your sister tend to take matters in to your own hands and nearly every night end up sleeping together.

It’s cute and annoying and adorable at the same time.

You love taking three hour naps with me. This is proof you truly did come out of my belly. I think it’s the only gift I gave you, (your father has extremely strong face-genes) the ability to nap.

I understand now how parents connect on different levels with their children. I will always love you both. I will always be here for you both. But your sister has chosen your dad as her go-to comfort and you have chosen me. This is ok. I think it’s natural. You have so much of your dad in you, it was bound to happen that we’d connect. And your sister has so much of me in her, she’s the Yin to your dad’s Yang. Just don’t tell that to your sister when she’s older. She won’t want to hear how like me she truly is.

We loved you before you were here and now I can’t imagine our lives without you. Three years, Buddy. You’re three years old now. You know what that means?

Welcome to owning choke-able toys now, son. You’re a big kid now.

Love you,
Mommy

Good night, Sleep tight, Don’t let the bed bugs bite May 17, 2010

Riddle me this: Full size bed, two adults. One person gets eaten alive nightly while the other blissfully sleeps through everything including children screaming, bitten-adult turning on lights and cussing, and possibly a small earthquake.

Y’all, I’m getting eaten.alive.in.my.bed.

It’s been going on for a week now. I thought we had a spider so I changed the sheets and washed the bedding. It came back. My legs are all chewed up, my hips have red bumps on them and the bites are migrating north to my neck. I swear to god I have a teeny-tiny Edward Cullen sucking his way through all my veins. No, actually, I enjoy that image too much. Maybe it’s more like a very tiny family of spiders, or a bunch of bed bugs?

Which, while I’m at it, DO NOT GOOGLE BED BUGS.

I’m itching just thinking about it.

The real puzzle is that I am the only one in the family getting bit, bed bugs are not as common in the northwest, and did I mention I’m the ONLY ONE getting bit?

So today I’m starting a clean/deep cleanse/sealing the mattress sort of an exercise. If nothing else, our house better shine like a brass-bull’s balls. I don’t think I can take this much longer.

UPDATE TOO: Maybe it was the moving van! From the condo to here! I bet it was the van. Fucking Uhaul. I KNEW we should’ve hired movers.

UPDATED: This is just more reason I’m not having any more children. How is that related? Oh, it so totally is. If we have more children, we’d have to move again and if we move again, we’d probably be too poor to get movers because of all these fucking children, yaknow? So we’d have to make our friends help us move and we’d probably get bed bugs from the moving van. It always comes back to the mister getting a vasectomy. Always.

I guess the real question is, would you have to look for me in the fetish section, too? May 16, 2010

A few weeks ago, I attended an amazing panel about our girls being “sexy too soon” by Parent Map. I was asked to tweet about the event during the discussion and received a ton of great feedback via twitter regarding the content of the session. It was well done and truly full of wonderful ideas to reach out to our girls.

However.

As I grabbed the courage to stand and ask a question, an Asian lady stood up before me to ask hers. “It’s taken us two hours and we haven’t talked about race,” she said. The room fell silent. The all white panel stammered. “Um, yea…” The question-asker went on, “You know where my husband has to go find porn that looks like me? The FETISH section. That’s because we over-romanticize and sexualize our blonde-hair, blue-eyed women.”

Everyone sort of smacked their gum and pushed their collection jaws shut.

I honestly can’t remember exactly what this ladies point was. Was it about how we don’t treat all races equal? Or was it that I, a two-time-c-section recipient with abs that jiggle when I walk am not overly sexualized in porn films, too? I mean, let’s face it, if MY husband wanted to find a film with someone who looks like me in it, he’d have to hit up the “your mama has two babies and you wanna do her hot ladiez” section.

I’m pretty sure it would start a mom running with her uterus flopping around madly yelling at her kids in her sweats.

RAUR.

How many times have I blogged about my weight and my body? You’ve lost count, you say? So have I. It’s a struggle I’ve had long before I was ever a mom. I struggled as a pre-teen, as a teen, as an early 20’s and now as a mom. It’s hard to stay at my “happy weight” and I’m clearly miles from it now. (Literally MILES people. As in “run/bike/walk a shit-ton of miles and maybe you MIGHT be at your goal weight as long as there is not a brewery at the end of the rainbow.)

I like beer. I like Wine. And I love Chocolate.

I hate my body right now.

In a fit of disgust, I did a facebook search for Body-for-LIFE and found Formerly Fat Matt. My husband and I have both been successful on Body-for-LIFE so I thought perhaps we can do it as a team again. I was inspired.

So inspired, in fact, that I ate smores, three (and a half) beers and full-fat-stuffed-salmon and mayonnaise with salad on it for dinner on Saturday.

yum

I talked to Mr. Flinger about it this morning. “You know who always talks about diets?” I said. “Fat People.” He agreed. Skinny people just DO it. Fat people talk about doing it.

Man, I talk a lot about losing weight, don’t I.

So here I am. Almost thirty-five, frustrated, laid off, not having sex enough and trying to find some sort of balance between being a mom and being me. I’m the perfect “before” for Body-for-LIFE. Give me 12 weeks. I’d like to prove that I’m the perfect “after” too.

Starting the challenge for round 3 in 2010. If you join, let me know. I’d like to know who’s ass I’m kicking. heh

Mother’s Day 2010: Epic Awesomesauce May 10, 2010

Mother’s Day started early. Saturday night my friend Ashley picked me up in her awesome mobile to head to our favorite local restaurant.

It was great girl-time in which we talked about wine and sex and being a mom. Not in that order. Or maybe in that order. I forget because the wine was first.

The next morning I woke up to flowers, cards, and the Sunday Paper. I love the Sunday Paper. I love that I look studious while perusing the Target Ad.

We went for a hike near our home. The kids ran ahead because they aren’t old enough to realize you still have to actually walk BACK to the car.

Silly kids. They never learn.

This is shortly before the Two Year Old lost his mind because his feet stopped working.

These are the cows we communed with. I’m pretty sure I insulted one of them. Mooo.Moooo.Moooo. (That’s cow for “Are you expecting?” She is not.)

Here is the picture of my family at the top of the hill. This is shortly before the Five Year Old lost her mind because her feet stopped working.

Then I took a picture of my arm.

Here we are at the top. This is where my daughter shelves my boob for me.

We got home and decided to built a fire-pit.

It was possibly the best decision of the weekend. Nothing beats fresh camp-fire hotdogs. Nothing, that is, except camping in your own backyard.

I hope yours was just as fabulous.

I make a terrible fairy-tale princess, a crappy mormon, a shitty buddhist and a worse country wife May 07, 2010

We have mice. When I tell this to people they laugh. “Welcome to the country,” they say. They tell me to get a cat. They tell me this is part of being surrounded by all this land.

Last night we saw a mouse. Instead of being the calm, rational person “they” expect me to be, I jumped on a chair while yelling, “KILL THE FUCKER” and simultaneously pouring a glass of wine. It was not my proudest moment.

My daughter has lived with invisible mice for nearly three years. It started one night after introducing her to Cinderella. I asked her doctor about it when one cute “invisible mouse” turned in to two years, a million mice, and actual conversations between them. My daughter often draws all of her mice in her pictures, a group of small circles grouped below her lanky legs and flowing blonde hair. She talks about them daily. She tells me when it’s her mice’s birthday. She tells me when they talk to her.

It’s really, very very creepy.

We’ve been keeping our mice problem from her until now. Unable to utter “Kill The Mouse” in front of my precious Cinderella-esque daughter, we’ve kept the entire thing to ourselves.

This morning, though, when the trap caught The Fucker, my strong, able husband escorted his skittish wife to the garage to share in his triumph. A moment later our daughter pushed through, “I wanna see! What are we looking at?”

Her eyes caught the mouse. She stood for a moment and then turned back to the table to finish her breakfast. I thought it went well. Mr. Flinger and I exchanged a glance and a shrug.

A few minutes later she leans to her brother, “I can’t find my mice. I can’t see them. I think they’re dead.”

I’ve often wondered about her mice and the long term effect her invisible friends would have. I’ve asked her to get an invisible cat. Her mice, though, have been the one solid in her life, always with her, always near. And now her mother has gone and killed them.

Forget being a good wife, mother or country-girl. Forget getting in to the seven layers of heaven as I pour my glass of wine. Forget thinking animals have purpose and respecting life of all living things. I’ve single-handedly killed my daughter’s spirit with one single mouse trap.

I may as well have turned her in to a pumpkin at midnight.

At least The Fucker is dead.

Moms, Business, Family and Pepperidge Farm May 06, 2010

I don’t always believe in Fate. I want to keep my life organized in such a way it does not possibly involve anything other than my own strength. But sometimes I have to confess that there are strong coincidences that can not, nor should be, over-looked. I had no idea this post would be one of them.

When Blog Nosh Magazine came to me with an offer to read about and reflect on the founder of Pepperidge Farm, I said yes without truly understanding the impact this would have. I did not know I would lose my job this week, nor could I have known how much I would identify with Margaret Rudkin. Truly, I did not appreciate the exact timing of such an offer.

I do now.

Sitting in my “Mommy Time Out”, reading over the tale of how Pepperidge Farm began, I found myself appreciating the community of motherhood, entrepreneurship, and clean eating. These three things are the tenants of my site here, the foundation of my life. I found myself reflecting on how easy it is to forget this balance, to allow one aspect to dominate another. As a mother trying to re-group in the business world while finding a path to healthier eating and lifestyle, I was simply inspired by Margaret’s tale.

Hey, Margaret! My first bread attempt sucked, too!

We have this platform here to connect. We have this place called “blogging” in which we can pour out our hearts on a bad night and have the support from friends near and far. I don’t remember life before this and I never parented it without it. You have been here with me since my daughter was born nearly six years ago. I could not, nor would I want to, imagine doing it without this village.

Margaret- Founder of Pepperidge Farm

Seeing old photos of a mom striking out on her own, alone in her quest to find a healthier lifestyle out of necessity for her son, I’m taken aback by her strength. Such strength she must have had to endure criticism from her child’s doctor, skepticism from her community. And still, even still, she pushed foreword. I reflect on my own strength and I ask myself, truly, could I do it alone?

I do not know. And I do not want to find out.

What I know is that we’re here as a community to encourage. I know when I fail to post my clean eating progress, someone will ask me about it. I know when my job ends that I can count on the community to keep an ear to the ground on my behalf. In truth, I admire the spirit and strength women like my Grandmother, my own mother, and Margaret had in the face of being everything to everyone, and I confess in transparency, I do not have the same strength.

My Grandmother often spoke of her life as a working mother. She passed away before my daughter was born and I miss being able to ask her what it was like for her to balance work and family. I’ve heard my mother’s stories of raising her three brothers while her parents worked. I know her childhood was limited and her time was mostly spent caring for her younger siblings, doing the dishes, laundry and making meals. I watch my own children, wrestle with my own motherly guilt, wondering what I am doing to their long-term memories. I want a better way for them, a garden with fresh veggies, a life of outdoor adventures, and in this spirit we moved to the country. We work to provide a better life. I pursue a career, an education, a job that enables my flexibility to be all things to all people. In theory.

Never do I appreciate the struggles of a working mother, an entrepreneur, all the love of sacrifice and strength it takes, until I understand I am not alone in this quest.

Endlessly thankful, I continue to find hope and comfort in the story of women both past and present as we strive to be great in all we pursue, however alone we sometimes feel.

Please join Blog Nosh Magazine in the Pepperidge Farm Carnival. We’re asking for your own stories of strength, of fighting for something, or someone, you love. We want to pull together with you as a community of support during the week of Mother’s Day to hold up one another. You are not alone. With the generations of mothers past and the community of mothers today, we stand joined together by love for our children, strength for our families, and a commitment to a better life for everyone.

Join us.

This post is sponsored by Blog Nosh Magazine as part of the Blog Nosh Magazine and Pepperidge Farm Celebrate the Heart and Art of Motherhood carnival. Gladly endorsed and happily reflected upon by me.

I can point to a variety of excuses, reasons, I’m feeling so… Off. So.. Depressed. So… Tired. I acknowledge my depression, my monster-in-the-closet that is mostly kept at bay 99% of the year. I recognize this huge success that only 1% of the time I find myself wanting to stay in bed, drink too much wine, sit and ignore the world. I’m living that 1% right now and I hate it.

I can blame the tumultuous housing market, our condo that is for sale at nearly half what we paid for it. We knew it was possible, but never realized how terrible the market truly tanked.

I could blame being cut back at work for economical reasons which ultimately makes me want to blame Obama and maybe Bush and also Hurricane Katrina.

I could blame Mother Nature for being a foul mouth bitch and bringing May Winter instead of Flowers that really pisses me right off.

I could blame my weight because HEY! Why not!?

I could blame the kids because they caused my tummy which subsequently made me less attractive and thus start working out more and create these bags under my eyes because I am entirely too tired and OHMYGOD I haven’t slept since 2003. Or something.

:: deep breath ::

Ultimately, I had a bad day. The kids pushed the wrong buttons and I am tired and cranky. I can see, already, the way things are looking up. The offer on the condo, the awesome opportunities of work coming, the house I’m thankful to lose my shit in and the bedrooms I can send my children to time out in.

But right now, I want to sit in Mommy Time Out. It’s the only quite spot left. And it offers wine.

How to not write like a douche Apr 28, 2010

That’s right. What I have to say is so important, I am going to do it in three installments. This? Is number one.

Here is a short post on how to not write like a douche.

Its, It’s
Its is possessive. The book is torn and its page is wrinkled.
It’s is a contraction of it and is. It’s about to rain.

You’re vs Your
Editors note: This one makes my tongue curl to the back of my throat and sputter strange noises only gophers understand, so listen up.
You’re is a contraction of YOU and ARE. You’re going to DIE when I tell you this!
Your is possessive. Your husband is getting you beer.
(Maybe you’re still confused? Go here.)

Their, There, They’re
Their is possessive. Their dog just pooped on the floor. Their shoes are moldy.
There is a location. You can find the cup over there.
They’re is a contraction of THEY and ARE. They’re going to catch a plane.

Here vs Hear
Here is location. (Similar to THERE. In fact, this is how I remember this. THERE and HERE are locations - both abstract and real.) We have the best coffee here
Hear is what you do with your ears. In fact, EAR is in the word HEAR. Did you hear that? You can remember now!

Apostrophe’s
People? THAT IS WRONG.
Apostrophes are for showing possession (or contraction). It is NOT for plural.

:: taps glass to computer screen ::

Apostrophes are not for plural.

So, let’s say (oh! see what I did? LET US = let’s) we want to tell everyone we have a moms club.

It is not a Mom’s Club. That is one mom’s club (perhaps she’s a cave-woman or a police-woman.)